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Obviously we cherry greedily, several bottles of Vodka, during that day of March 27, which was dressed completeness in her black mantle of prayer, at the end...

Yes, the nudity of bottles, and inability to link a dialog, gives me a feeling of terrible anguish. It strengthens blood in me!I try to incite, Uln, I know that he owns abyssal alcohol stocks, but his eyes now break the windows. The silence between us as a whore, lascivious, stand with one foot over another.

We're on a stage, I think,is missing only Chekhov and the dead seagull ...

While everyone sat in it quietly , rejuvenated morning , moves on old walls, while Kalp, decided to enter into the room with a book under his arm.

We're on a stage, I think, is missing only Chekhov and the death Seagull... but who cares!

Heaven came down upon us...


Guys, time goes on the ice hole, and without this nifty alcohol ,which rinse our eyes, really, the word loses its strength. With a gesture of fakir, he let out a bottle half barren ...

Swinging he bluntly says :



we'll drink we'll drink we'll drink, obedient and in silent that bitter life...

as so intellectuals drink today !

her mother living ...



we'll drink we'll drink we'll drink...


Older, Uln, please notes: Today, 27/03 the great writer Kalp is on the tail of a year, that take clinch

not to fall directly in the other!

You should notice my supple style , my power to tie words in that soft air as cotton...



Owls sing in your empty heads and empty your eyes! how mother I came into this nest of Stoics?

But how God did you manage to push this concrete night from this room... rather I have been waiting to put my sensitive shoulder to the need?

Brethren, if you want to leave here in this cell, in this cocoon , you ‘ll fall like soothed birds...

hie but I forgot , love keep them under the clouds breasts...


Yes we are changing like the weather...


You see how bashful I am, how I dress the language, as I sweetener the blank expressions?


for the sake of shameful, must know, boor,

You have noted Mr. Uln?

Please write...


Poetry is huge and unique, poetry comes from the soul, poetry is born in the young man who is not bitten by life yet ...

Poetry is so so sooo...

as I would be loosed from my mother!

Please, put an exclamation mark or exclamation, I do not realize yet...


But put a chair between your legs Kalp, do not feel the wind, empty over again?

Let's get to stories and practical activities, is not it folks? That life is short, as a hole

What do you know?

Take to mind!

Liandra (the one that hung from the doorknob) 10 years ago, gave birth to a child, of course you do not know!

A child like Zacchaeus, which looked at Jesus from sycamore...

if you climb, Jesus we'll bless you...

I wanted to tell you that this child write poetry so well, he can listen to the universe.

He, the child says that him heard God breathing in the labyrinth of the ear...


Yeah, his father does not know where it came from or where he went, unfortunately!


the inspiration my brothers left me, but see this book is full, writing is untidy, but I try to understand it.



The night hit Kalp between eyes...

The day run on streets...

at the edge of the ocean immensity ...

Submited by

terça-feira, julho 26, 2011 - 19:52

Prosas :

Average: 5 (5 votes)


imagem de kalp
Título: Membro
Última vez online: há 10 anos 32 semanas
Membro desde: 07/16/2011
Pontos: 239

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